


i moved further (than i thought i could)

by wolfiery (asswords)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Healing, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, New Orleans, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rescue, Reunions, Slow Build, mentioned murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asswords/pseuds/wolfiery
Summary: “What?” The Sheriff repeats, unamused and clearly not letting up on the worry in this situation. It’s been a week and Stiles woke up three days ago after continuous sleeping and strange dreams that he can’t remember most details of.“I’m staying here,” Stiles says again, slowly with the stubbornness he’s aware will just anger his dad even more. “In New Orleans.”





	i moved further (than i thought i could)

**Author's Note:**

> so this has been in my drafts for-fucking-ever and the ending is kind of rushed and there's no smut, but i just wanted to finally put this out of my mind and share it, so um.
> 
> hope you enjoy?

(i)  
  
Stiles can't move a muscle, his feet and arms are bound with cold, shiny, fucking unbreakable wire and he's pretty sure he's been drugged. The way his jaw throbs but there's no pain and everything is so heavy. His mind feels so heavy - his shoulders too.  
  
He isn’t sure how long he’s been like this, awake and unaware, but it’s become a routine at this point. He knew he was kidnapped around the third day the two killers took him, but it’s hard to remember how long it's been. _God_ , how long has it been? Deep down, he’s not even upset about it. The only thing on his mind is that he doesn't want to move ever again. Just wants to curl up and sleep. Forever, especially sounds good.  
  
There's a sudden shock wave that runs through the wooden floors and his eyes blink open before the thundering _boom_ echoes through the halls. His heart is pounding at the interference, at the peace he was so close to reaching.  
  
Something is wrong. Different. Changing.  
  
What is he doing here again? He can't remember how this even happened, or why he's wired to a chair with intricate knots. Fuck, fuck, _what_ is happening?  
  
His eyes scan the room in a panic, not seeing anything except a plugged-in lantern on an otherwise empty table. Everything's dusty and worn. Stiles thinks he should move, since he doesn’t want to. He should absolutely try moving his legs. He bends them up at his kneecaps and then drops them down again but for some reason, he couldn’t feel it happening even though his mind willed it so. This was fucked up. He must be fucked up. What the hell did they give him this time?  
  
_Well, if there's a will, there's a way_ , his mind seems to supply for him helplessly. A voice, but it's _him_ yet not.  
  
Riddles. So many riddles. God, what if he was always this crazy, what if _he’s_ still there? Lingering under his dreams, coming back through maniacal grins and wordplay, doing his best to try and fuck over Stiles one last time. No, _no_ , Stiles killed that part of him, obliterated beyond resurrection, right?  
  
Just as he realizes he can't break through _wire_ , his determination defeated, the door begins to creak open slowly.  
  
His heart hammers, gasping, terrified. What will he do? He looks around his for any kind of possible weapon but the wires around his wrist are digging into his skin and the only thing in the room is that damn lantern.  
  
Suddenly he can start to feel a rush of pain again, floating in waves through his head, an intense pounding that makes him keel over, gasping in pain. He keeps losing air, a hand clutching to his chest in hope for some kind of release. And then he hears footsteps as someone rushes through the door with another loud bang that he feels the bass of through his veins, along with another rush of pain and defeat.  
  
His eyes start blinking shut rapidly, the drugs making him loose and tired - he can tell he’s about to pass out again.  
  
All the terror leaves his body though when he hears a male voice coming towards him, the soft and still horrified, bleeding with worry, “Stiles? Oh fuck, _Stiles_!”  
  
He's smiling with a calmness, convinced he's dreaming now, maybe saying something out loud, but doesn't know for sure.  
  
And then he blacks out.

 

(ii)  
  
Derek knows a lot of horrible things have happened to him. He feels the past etched on every part of his skin and soul. He's grieved more people he ever thought he could and carried so much pain, he thought he'd broken everything left.  
  
He used to think it was a wonder he was alive. He used to not really understand _why_ he was still alive (and he's still working on it, still fighting the good fight).  
  
But the real _wonder_ is how the fuck a sprawny human with foolish bravery, son of a sheriff, was a fucking trouble magnet in _every_ state and still stayed alive.  
  
Even now, Stiles, in a hospital bed as his body flushes out all of the many different drugs that were forced into his system, after being kidnapped by a pair of fucking _serial_ killers, is alive.  
  
But it's cutting it close. Too close. He barely made it out and Derek is not ashamed to say he carried an unconscious Stiles through the emergency doors with an unstoppable wildness and shouting for immediate care.  
  
Derek wasn't supposed to go alone. He'd been assigned to check out the place as a favor to the local alpha. It was to keep Callie on his good side, offering his 'investigative’ skills without having to officially join her pack. But he said he would keep the town safe for humans and is keeping his promise to do so. It was all based on a stupid piece of mail that was returned to the sender, it was supposed to be an empty lead. There wasn't any expectation of a male and a female to be squatting at the location.  
  
A light and quick cough distracts him but Stiles is still sound asleep, as he has been for a full day already. He called the Sheriff to let him know earlier in the day, once he was sure Stiles was stable (even after the doctor's reassurance, he kept focusing on the heartbeat). Stiles' father said he would be there within 24 hours and Derek could almost feel his panic and worry traveling all the way from California.  
  
The strange thing is he can only _begin_ to understand it. He hasn't seen Stiles for about three years, but it’s the way he looks is gaunt, unbearably skinny and nearly a ghost of everything he was, that’s really twisting up his thoughts. And it's _Stiles_ , the most expressive person he's ever known and it's the most terrifying thing to see him look so fucking _beaten_. The Sheriff must be feeling it all in tenfold.  
  
Derek doesn't spend too much time in Stiles’ room, instead wasting some time getting coffee and food for himself, since it’s an ultimate waiting game and he doesn’t know what to do otherwise.  
  
When the sheriff shows up, he's followed by an entourage. It's a shock to everything in Derek's system, but he should've planned this better, should’ve known that the Sheriff wouldn’t be alone.  
  
Stiles was kidnapped for an estimated five _weeks_ (the doctor told him about numerous faded scars and marks of frequent injuries). Of course his old pack would follow him anywhere. He suddenly feels angry when he locks eyes with Scott, because he _knows_ , he fucking knows and didn't tell him Stiles was missing and in danger immediately.  
  
Derek's fully aware that he’s glaring, feeling the raw rage creep along his spine, just itching to shift and attack. But Scott is an alpha and Derek can control himself by now. It’s smart to stay quiet – after all, he's been betrayed before, it’s a familiar occurrence.  
  
But then he hears a gut-wrenching gasp escape from the sheriff and the anger crumples to dust in the back of his mind. Scott is ignorant to his glare anyhow, brown eyes glossed over with ultimate concern and disbelief at the return of his best friend. He turns his head towards the hospital bed, where Stiles' father is crying and leaning his head onto his chest.  
  
And then, the rest of them - all the people he used to call friends - Lydia, Malia, Kira, and Scott - are walking to the bed and checking in on Stiles. Their relieved faces taking over, gentle hands placed on Stiles’ shoulder, a show of care and trust that seems a bit foreign to him now. It’s been a long time since he’s been around something so tight-knit.  
  
Suddenly, he feels that this is not his place anymore. It was his choice to leave the comfort that Scott had offered as courtesy all those years ago. Derek knows it too, he could’ve had a pack, he could’ve been in the very same pack in front of him but he chose a different road. Though he wouldn’t change it, Derek has no right to stay and pretend to be a part of what they’ve built (even if Stiles always seemed to be a _special_ case). A small part of him thinks maybe he should stay for Stiles’ sake, but Scott and the others are sure to take care of him and watch him every mile of the way back to Beacon Hills — and fuck, maybe he’s a coward, because he definitely can’t face anyone’s questions. And Stiles wouldn’t care anyways. Afterall, it’s been _years_ , it’s impossible.  
  
He's out the door before anyone can notice, but on his way out of the hospital, the woman who first attended to Stiles in the emergency room is sending a grimace and farewell nod his way, her eyes are deep and sorrowful as if she knows he won’t be coming back.  
  
As he's walking through the parking lot to his car, he's sifting through flashbacks in his head. The way his senses were off the moment he arrived at the house. The way something must have cursed him, because he was able to recognize Stiles scent for what it was, its sweat-ridden anxiety and its familiarity to Derek from what feels like forever ago. That stupid scent crept up and took over. In the beginning, he had known it just in pieces – a candle going out, green tea, and something like the gardenias his Aunt Camilla used to grow at her country house. Then it built, he talked to the teen, started to pick apart panicked sarcasm and good-natured teasing, school-related stress and the stress about his dad’s health. By the time they had been planning to break into the bank vault, he had it memorized, written in his programming, even if it was an accident back then, he knows the reasons now why it made his anchor slip when he left his loft the first time.  
  
He had to sneak into the house, to knock out the two humans, who didn’t make it easy – the man holding a shotgun barrel that he _just_ managed to redirect to his leg (which was still healing as Derek bounded up the stairs in the aftermath) and the woman had put up a fight with a knife and he swears she snarled at him several times but only ever remained human. He finally came across Stiles bruised and tied up with wires, mumbling to himself. And before the boy passed out, he shook the werewolf with a simple, “D’rek, my st'pid hero.”  
  
Derek had only blinked, confused and admittedly shaken at the words. He called it in to Callie, the only thing that would be appropriate of him to do, and she sent some betas from her pack to take care of it and team up with their local law enforcement as he took his... former packmate to the hospital.  
  
But all that doesn’t matter now. He thought New Orleans would be far enough to leave things behind. But now, there’s no chance of that happening, not while this place is tainted, not while he’ll remember Stiles, dismal and smaller in a small room being tortured, a dimmer version of himself in a hospital bed. And the people of Beacon Hills, who still stand strong in a pack, fighting for each other.  
  
He fights for no one anymore. The realization hurts, so he runs again.

 

(iii)  
  
“What?” The Sheriff repeats, unamused and clearly not letting up on the worry in this situation. It’s been a week and Stiles woke up three days ago after continuous sleeping and strange dreams that he can’t remember most details of.  
  
“I’m staying here,” Stiles says again, slowly with the stubbornness he’s aware will just anger his dad even more. “In New Orleans.”  
  
“You were gone for _weeks_ ,” his dad says weakly and Stiles shivers briefly, following it with a heavy sigh.  
  
“I was also moved across the country for weeks. I’m not moving from this town until I _want_ to,” he insists, his fingers playing with the I.V.’s and attachments on his arms, but not ruining anything. It’s just uncomfortable, that’s all. He knows that Derek called his dad, because the sheriff told him, but he also knows that Derek had not visited at all since everyone’s arrival. So he hasn’t brought up anything since, even if it doesn’t sit right with him. He knows his dad must have considered he was dead at some point. Stiles didn’t blame him for it, knows that he searched as hard as he could for as long as he could. His name became an open missing persons file, after all.  
  
And while what he’s told his dad is true, he can’t deny that some part of him wants to stay behind for another reason. This is where he ended up, and where Derek ended up too, and it can’t just be a coincidence.  
  
But he absolutely can’t go back to his hometown, that’s a given.  
  
“But you’re not okay,” is the last argument his dad can come up with.  
  
And Stiles, always prepared, looks out the window and simply refuses to meet his father’s eyes, “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” There’s a moment of constriction that’s palpable in the room, as if he can feel his dad’s emotional hurt but can’t connect to it at all because he’s been out of responding to reality for too long, so he finally just asks bluntly, “Could you get a newspaper for me?”

 

(iv)  
  
Stiles meets Callie three weeks later, after he’s settled into a small one-room apartment above a boutique. He doesn’t have an actual bedroom, but there’s a kitchen and a bathroom with a shower so it’s all he really needs for the time being. He used what he had saved in his account from odd jobs over the years and has already set up an interview with the local grocery store for a job.  
  
He had to beg his pack to let him be. He can’t erase Lydia’s glossy eyes trying not to cry when he said he’d be staying or Scott’s puppy-eyed stare that tried its best to let him know he was there for him. Malia understood the most and only asked that he give them a call when he could. It was a heady feeling on his heart, knowing he was unintentionally hurting them more, but after all their searching and trying, he had to find himself again first before everything could go back to normal. If it ever could.  
  
It’s been difficult getting settled into normalcy again. He’s been appointed by his doctor to attend NA meetings once a week, since Morgan and Vince Gorland apparently fed him Vicodin and Xanax against his will long enough for his body to build a dependency on it. The withdrawal hit hard and like a bitch when he tried to sleep in the apartment for the first night. He goes without complaint, though the truth is he's too terrified of the memories to ever think about taking those drugs at his own risk.  
  
Stiles is still getting into the habit of eating meals again. Some days he has to remind himself of having pretzels or some kind of snack usually preceded with a glance at the clock and a curse. His body still has a soreness but he's gotten used to it and can only hope with time that he won't still feel the former motions of a blade being pressed into the skin of his shoulder.

And then the nightmares — those are a special formulated hell made just for him.  
  
The town’s alpha doesn't make the visit easy on him, despite knowing of his attack, asking for tea and proper hospitality. It must be a Southern thing he’s not used to yet, he thinks.  
  
“Sugar? Honey?” he asks, eyeing the the woman with sleek black hair sitting at the wooden table. It's the only seating area he has, since the middle of the room was taken up by his mattress and the TV.  
  
“Teaspoon of honey, please,” she answers automatically, as he pours the hot water into the mug with her black tea and lemon.  
  
“Of course,” he answers and tries to not feel intimidated. She has two betas standing outside his door though which fails to make him truly comfortable.  
  
“It appears a mutual friend of ours has left town,” Callie admits carefully, testing out the waters as her back is still turned to the human. He can feel his back stiffening, the muscles tense but that could be from his horrid posture all his life (he hopes). “I always wondered what he was running from.”  
  
The statement causes a tense frown to form on his face, feeling the underlying accusation. He carries the mug gently in his hands and walks over slowly, setting it down in front of her. Her skin is dark like some vibrant tree bark and she seems to be unnaturally beautiful as all supernatural creatures typically are.  
  
“I wondered that myself,” he finally says, when it seems that she won’t interrupt the silence with something else.  
  
“He was a valuable asset. I was a bit surprised when the nature of your _attack_ arose. I’m very sorry for what was done to you,” and now she seems a bit more earnest, sincere in her words, and Stiles feels it run through his core but remains cautious anyways.  
  
“What was done? With – with the two?” Stiles doesn’t even say the names of his kidnappers. It’s an empty feeling he yearns to fix soon.  
  
“Our law enforcement took care of it. They were on the run for a long time. As I understand, there were other victims in almost every state from A to B in their travels. Completely disgusting. I can’t fathom such pointless violence and behavior. As the detective told me, they were very much wanted,” she says with a smirk, still displeased with the situation regardless.  
  
“Okay,” Stiles replies, feeling like his questions could wait for his own research time. After all, if they were put away, that’s one less thing he has to worry about. “I can’t speak for muscle assistance, but I’ve been told I’m quite capable with research, if you ever need that spot filled up,” he adds, thinking of how Derek must have had some position with this pack, if they knew of him and most packs expect a life debt to be paid.  
  
“I don’t think he rescued you to be a replacement, honey,” she says, with an amazed laugh, “You just got out of some serious bullshit. There is nothing that has to be done. You can rest if that’s what you want.”  
  
“The offer is kind of you, though,” Callie amends, sending a small smile his way as if she recognized the way he was trying. “In fact, I’ll return it. If you need any help or want to hear some good music, don’t hesitate to call.” Then she fumbled around in her purse, pulling out a pen, and scribbling on a napkin that was upon the table.  
  
She puts the mug to her lips and tilts it back, gulping the tea in long sips until she finished, and then placed the cup back down. “Thanks for the tea. This meeting went well.”  
  
“Why do you think he left?” Stiles asks before he can help himself.  
  
Callie looks sad when she looks back at him, shrugging her jacket on her shoulders, “I don’t know why he had to go. But I have a feeling he’ll have to come back.”  
  
The door opens and Stiles’ stomach growls unhelpfully, causing the two betas to look at him oddly. Callie’s facial expression doesn’t change, she just throws out a loud, “Eat something!” before walking away, her pack following behind her.  
  
He shuts the door after they’re gone and leans against it, breathing heavily. He’s limping slightly when he reaches the kitchen to put the cups into the sink, his thigh muscles starting to ache uncomfortably from the strenuous walking he’s been doing lately.  
  
Stiles doesn’t waste much time trying to clean up. He walks to the mattress and sinks himself into it, doing his best to wrap himself up in blankets, like eventually it’ll become a safety replacement. He falls asleep in minutes and doesn’t dream at all.

 

(v)  
  
Derek doesn’t leave Louisiana but he goes to the capital just two weeks after taking Stiles to the hospital. He’s checking into a hotel in Baton Rouge when his phone rings with an unknown number. Not feeling particularly keen to be threatened, he hesitates but picks it up anyways. He’s surprised to hear the tentative voice of Scott, “Derek?”  
  
“Scott?” he supplies in return, unhelpfully but still slightly baffled. His first guess is that Scott is going to blame him for not getting to Stiles sooner, but then quickly discards that thought.  
  
“Uh, you still in the city?”  
  
Derek doesn’t ask for clarification, doesn’t need to. “I’m about two hours away, why?” He carefully doesn’t give any details away, just wanting to know if it’s an emergency regarding Stiles or not (admittedly selfish of him, but he doesn’t have a pack).  
  
“The pack’s back on our way to Beacon Hills... but, well, I guess Stiles is adamant on staying there. I just figured, maybe you could check on him? Let us all know how he’s doing?” Scott seems a bit desperate in his plead.  
  
Derek only feels slightly surprised before the anger takes over. He’s not even sure where it’s coming from, but then he’s saying, “Look, he’s alive but he’s fucking traumatized. If I go over there now, nothing’s gonna help him. He’ll be fine, just give it time,” but his own voice isn’t too convinced of its certainty.  
  
“Derek, I’m not asking you to confess here, I know you want to keep it –”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes and huffs a sarcastic and bitter laugh before he can help it, “You should’ve told me. Even if I was never going to tell him, I think I have some right to know if he could be dying.”  
  
" _You’re_ the one who didn’t want to be a part of our lives! And Stiles is more _pack_ than _your_ mate! You told me not to bother you –”  
  
“And now I’m telling you again,” Derek says harshly and then hangs up the phone without blinking, his heart rate beating thunderously against his ribs, he looks down at his hands, surprised at the claws that have popped out without thinking. It’s been a long time since the words Stiles and mate went hand in hand in a sentence out loud. He has a minute to calm down, getting a grip on his wolf side, and his brain works better, steadily processing just how irrational he’s being. He thinks if his sister was here, she’d tell him he's being an idiot who needs a punching bag. Scott _isn't_ asking him to say anything and he recognizes that Scott's not the one he's angry with. Maybe he should call Cora when he can.

The phone rings again a minute later and he answers it again only because of guilt, expecting to hear Scott, but this time it’s the Sheriff.  
  
“I told you –”  
  
“Hale, look, Scott’s asking for me, okay?” Sheriff Stilinski’s gruff tone comes through as helpless, “You want the truth?”  
  
Derek feels the sheriff’s exhaustion and suddenly feels embarrassed at his own anger. The pause remains and the werewolf just notices that Stiles’ father is expecting an answer. “He doesn’t know anyone in New Orleans and I’m leaving him there after nearly dying, because he _asked_ me to. And I don’t want to. But I feel responsible, so if that’s what he wants –,” a heavy sigh comes through the earpiece, interrupting the speech, “I’m supposed to protect him and instead, he had to suffer for five weeks _brutally_. No one really knows what that’s like, except you, I’m guessing.”  
  
Derek inhales sharply and finds himself saying softly, “I had to run away to feel okay again, yeah, I get that much.” It's a hell of a lot harder to want to yell at the Sheriff of Beacon Hills than it is a true alpha, apparently, he thinks uselessly.  
  
“Right,” Stilinski says off-beat, “I guess he’s gotta run away from me and everybody who cares about him, but I’m not gonna like it and I don’t have to. Just so long as he knows he deserves more than that and can come back to love anytime.”  
  
Derek sighs heavily, briefly wonders if such a thing is really possible, but something in his silence must go over wrong through the line, because the Sheriff is using one last string and knocks the wind out of Derek’s lungs.  
  
“And that he has love there. You don’t have to pretend to not care anymore, Derek, I don't know much about mates, but Deaton said enough,” the older man says soundly, no tone of accusation, just a simple row of facts that Derek found himself looming over ruthlessly. The Sheriff sighs again, "Just - see how he's doing? Yeah?"    
  
Derek only says, “I’ll call you” through sharp, gritted teeth and hangs up again.  
  
Fuck. _Fuck_ , he thinks and then looks at his unpacked suitcase and sees how needless all of this running was this time. Since it all catches up eventually.

 

(vi)  
  
Derek doesn’t let Stiles know he’s watching him. When he gets back he goes straight to Callie, simply informing her that he’d be going back to his apartment in the Fairgrounds.  
  
She’d accepted his return easily, with a knowing smirk. As he was leaving, he knew he had been too trusting, especially as she called out after him and said, “He’s an unlucky one, to be _yours_. I think he’s been waiting.”  
  
He turned around sharply and narrowed his eyes, trying to see what game she was playing, but the look in her near black eyes was only full of sympathy and a bit of pity, “I’ve never seen two people so broken be so obvious.”  
  
Even now, her words make Derek’s heart wrench, as he sees Stiles’ shoulders sink in his long frame as he closes the building door behind him and looks wearily around. He aches not only because the dark bags under Stiles’ eyes are obvious, not only because his torso seems thin or his shirt too large, but because Derek still finds him beautiful somehow, in that dangerous way, still feels that pull to be closer.  
  
It could be the time apart or the distance, three fucking years and almost two thousand miles of Derek not wanting to admit what he wants. He thought he made his peace with it, dated a girl named Rosaline for a few months until she left, until he realized he was fooling himself. He is a born wolf, one of his own kind, instinct had been the only thing that mattered and would continue to do so. There was no point to deny who his wolf is mated to. So he had lived with it, or so he thought he had, because now the pain is burning and his fingers are itching to run along Stiles’ arm, or do anything to make him less sad.  
  
Apparently, these are all things he didn’t deal with well.  
  
He watches how the damage carries itself in Stiles’ movements through the grocery store window, sitting on a bench in the park from a good distance but with enhanced vision it's easier to see the details. He watches how Stiles’ fingers shake sometimes when he’s opening the cash register or the strain in his smile that he gives with a repetitive, 'Have a nice day' as customers are checking out.  
  
And his mind supplies images of where Stiles would be if he hadn’t had found him randomly, what the Gorlands would still be doing, if he'd be hurt worse, if they would have eventually tried to kill him. Inside, he fights the immediate instinct to protect, his wolf almost appears in rage and spite but knows better. He thinks his eyes may have flashed accidentally though. He sees the memories anyways, how bruised Stiles' wrists were, chafed from time spent there, tugging harshly, how it was clear to him that Stiles tried to escape out of those wires so many times. How he had probably given up on all of it a few times too. And yes, Derek can guess what it was like, knows because he had been there too.  
  
Derek gets up from the park bench and walks away from his slight stalking, deciding there was nothing he could do but let wounds heal themselves. He calls the Sheriff later that afternoon from his apartment, quickly saying that Stiles was fine and had just started working. He tells him firmly that he won’t call often but will if anything changes in the bad kind of way. Derek figures there’s no need to bring up his unhealthy obsession or how much he still wants to say things to Stiles or for Stiles to talk to him.

 

(vii)  
  
Stiles is _done_. He can feel the gaze on his back from across the parking lot as he starts walking towards the sidewalk of the busy street. He’s just gotten off a tiring, four-hour shift at work and nearly had a panic attack during his lunch break with flashbacks. He’s _done_!  
  
“Come on, _asshole_ , just say something!” he shouts, not even bothering to be quiet. Stiles would say he’s surprised at his tone but if Derek’s trying to be sly, he’s already seen the flash of werewolf eyes a week ago because of some reflection. He hasn’t exactly forgotten that color, hasn’t been able to - and if the way his nervousness and excitement paralleled with the moment he realized Derek was watching him tells him anything, it's that he doesn't want to forget.  
  
A small part of him would never say it but he’s felt a little better leaving his apartment these past few days, knowing that nothing could really happen to him if he has a stalker from the past who has only ever saved his life and made him question his sexuality. He may be a trouble magnet but he can't say that he wasn't a little bit attracted to _small_ amounts of danger because of it.  
  
Still, the sight of Derek finally in front of him as he steps out of the shadows makes him inhale quickly, but he brushes it off as being taken by surprise with a little bit of fear. He didn't trust what he felt after he caught the glowing eyes, thinking he could just be imagining things, hallucinating, had to remind himself that the Nogitsune was gone and the Gorlands were in prison, but he still heard the footsteps around the corner from two days ago, felt _certain_ that it could only be the werewolf. He may be only human but he can tell apart what a scathing and a familiar scrutiny feels like. Derek’s hair is slightly longer now and wavy atop his head, his mouth thin and pursed among the five o’clock shadow he’s stuck to, his eyes a motley of greens and golds with a raw intensity that Stiles always felt himself magnetized to as he takes a step closer.  
  
His heart is pounding through his chest, recognizes the elapsed allure he felt in Mexico, the old dumb attraction that he knows is partly a reason he stayed in the South too. Stiles is distracted until Derek bows his neck, noticing quite suddenly that Derek is a few inches shorter than him and a laugh explodes out of him, pulling at his cheeks tightly as it shakes through his chest. Derek looks up at him, shocked as his mouth drops open at the absurdity of it, mostly likely coming to the conclusion that Stiles has lost his mind again, and he probably has. Because fuck it, the man’s eyelashes are _fluttering_ right now, making his stomach flip around just like old times, so he really had no chance, did he?  
  
“Are you –” Derek starts and then stops, as if unsure if Stiles was about to have another reaction of some sort and blinks blankly once more. When Stiles just lets his laugh subside into a hesitant smile, Derek barely resists smiling back as he rolls his eyes, trying to play it off but Stiles can see it by the way his eyes are heightened, more alive than two seconds ago. He licks his lips and Stiles tracks the movement naturally, like it’s rehearsed history. He looks at Derek only to realize that the silence was still prevailing and he’d be the only one who could break the ice.  
  
He doesn’t though, not for a moment, and just studies Derek’s face intensely, trying to read the past and see what other shit Derek’s had to go through, if his wrinkles would tell him about heartbreak or battle wounds, if he's been smiling more (like he always thought the guy should do). Stiles notices that the other man can tell he’s staring but doesn’t let it bother him, and it doesn’t, because Derek looks like _he’s_ to blame for something, like Stiles is taking him apart with awe. And then in just an instant, Stiles _knows_ that he hadn’t been making any of this up, this thing between them. Not as a teenager and not now, this was _always_ impeccably real.  
  
“So did you get far enough?” he means to ask normally, but it comes out more like a whisper this time. The wind picks up and he shifts side to side but not any further than before, still a respectably charged distance away from the other man.  
  
“Stiles,” Derek says brokenly, eyes casting to the ground as he shakes his head to himself, the look of regret painted on him. He looks up with pleading eyes, mouth dropping open as he’s about to say something but Stiles stops him with a raise of his hand before he can do so.  
  
He looks around him and just frowns, not meeting Derek’s guilty eyes for something that wasn’t his fault or the guilty eyes for something that was, because he knows he’s probably already past it. They’re here now and that can’t be for nothing, right? So Stiles hesitates for a second and then says, “Do you wanna go somewhere with me to talk?”  
  
“Yes,” he hears Derek say almost breathlessly, “I do.”

 

(viii)  
  
Derek thought he had it all figured out. That he’d make sure Stiles was okay and then slip away without looking back. But he was thrown the moment Stiles figured him out first, thrown when he caught the scent of candles and burnt pie. Then he was thrown when Stiles laughed brightly, something he knew hadn’t happened in a long time for the younger man. (He’s been that much observant, at least.)  But he still should’ve known not to expect anything when it came to Stiles.  
  
Especially since now they’re at a local diner, sitting in silence as they wait to order. Derek feels on edge in his bones, thrumming but not necessarily in a bad way. He just recognizes that this is something _important_ and has a deep set urge not to fuck it all up for once, though he’s prone to doing just that. The answer to Stiles’ question was plain enough. No, he hadn’t gotten far enough, no matter how much he tried, he still burned with _want_ and even now, wanted nothing more but to protect Stiles from anything and bury his face in the boy’s mole-covered neck and never leave again. But it’s clear that things couldn’t be that straightforward. He had saved Stiles only to try and disappear from it in repeat.  
  
“I think the old Derek would have killed them,” Stiles remarks as he bites into a french fry later on, like it’s casual to be talking about murder in public. Though, to be fair, New Orleans has always seemed a bit darker in humor, since Derek’s been living here.  
  
He can tell who Stiles is talking about immediately, even if the boy is trying to shrug off what happened to him as nothing important. But the damage is there, and had Derek known extensively…  
  
“I want to now,” he states blatantly, thinking of some revenge concoction that would be impossible now that they’re behind bars already. “I didn’t know.”  
  
“I did,” Stiles replies, frowning at his answer, “I was with them for weeks and I knew. I’m still telling you it wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t bring any of the victims back,” he doesn’t touch his food and instead starts to fidget with the napkin in front of him, sighing heavily and with a hint of hurt, tells him, “Come on, Derek, you know better than that with the blame game by now. And if it’s just because of what they did to _me_ , well – that still isn’t fair.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Derek asks, baffled at how forgiving Stiles seems to be toward his captors. He was a victim too, after all, even if he survived.  
  
“Why do you care so much? How did you even know I was there?” Stiles returns pointedly, his amber eyes narrowed and locked onto his own with a kind of mock-knowing, waiting for Derek to resist telling the truth again. Derek swallows thickly and reads between the lines anyways, feeling the rightness of how Stiles' words showcase justice compared to his own bias. A bias that the human seems to be wise of now, so why should he deny it at this point?  
  
“You’re my mate,” he replies firmly, looking dismally into Stiles’ eyes and finding that they’re starting to shine over with – fucking tears, god. What did he do?  
  
“And was I your mate when you decided to disappear from Beacon Hills to somewhere no one could find you? When you saved me and then took off without a word?” Stiles’ voice is bleeding with hurt and pain, which Derek now realizes, _was_ his fault, because he couldn’t be ready, because he thought he couldn’t ever be good enough for someone like Stiles. Even now, it’s still Derek being selfish and Stiles paying the price.  
  
“It’s not your fault, will you _please_ just talk to me?” Stiles begs amidst the silence, leaning forward over his plate of food and trying to get his eyes back to him.  
  
Derek knows that he looks like he’s in pain and he probably is, so he doesn’t overthink it, and reaches his hand out to grab Stiles’ hand resting on the table across him. He hears a sharp inhale at the touch and lets his eyes meet the other’s wet ones and says on a shaky exhale, “I’m _sorry_. I shouldn’t have left. But I did.“  
  
He knows it’s not enough as his eyebrows furrow together as he tries to fathom the right words to say, comes up with, “I didn’t want – I thought I could make it go away, that it was one-sided and stupid, foolish, whatever you want to call it. I mean, back then, you were _seventeen_ and I didn’t ever _want_ to think about you that way. I didn’t know for sure until later, it was the way you were _always_ amazing about something - planning, pack, those dog jokes, the loyalty. And I guess I thought staying - or living out here, I could finally put that behind me. How you were.”  
  
“So what couldn’t you forget?” Stiles asks, his fingertips squeezing against Derek’s, his heartbeat pounding rapid but steady, like it was possibly the most important moment of his life too.  
  
“How you were. All of it, really, _you_ ,” he admits with a shrug, and feels the weight of his own yearning heart. He feels the need to start over, to push this thing in the right direction. “Now I don’t want to forget.”  
  
Stiles looks up at him, earnestly, letting him go on.  
  
“Now I want to go forward,” and finds the words true to himself, how he wants to learn more about Stiles, if he’ll let him, learn about himself with Stiles, and just finally give what little he can offer, instead of pushing everything good aside. “I think you’re my one last chance at something really good,” his heart says out loud.  
  
Stiles reveals a small smile, his eyes full of a careful joy, his voice low and rough and shaky when he asks, “Do you – like I do – do you –”  
  
“Yeah,” Derek interrupts, his wolf wanting to roar, his eyes brimming hot and wet now too, “I do.”  
  
He can hear the hitch in Stiles’ breathing, the watery laugh and the happiness in Stiles' eyes is radiating light and god, all of that takes his breath away too.

 

(ix) 

Readjusting to the city is different with Stiles in between his hours of the day, something he's lucky to be given in the first place, the permission just to be around his mate is a blessing he isn't blind to. But the city, after five weeks, that's enlightened, he remembers the coffee house smell because Stiles was there. Can immediately recall a memory in the park on a sunny day and Stiles cracking up an old dog joke when a stranger’s chihuahua approached him. Stiles picking up a newspaper from a street vendor they had stopped at and grimacing as he put it away. The jeep has been stowed away in his father's garage in Beacon Hills for the past three months, so Derek has naturally offered him rides anytime, it's the _proper_ thing to do. To let Stiles have the time to recover and still be there for him in any way possible. And whatever he was so frightened of in the past, it’s suddenly not a hardship to faithfully be supportive of someone as incredible as Stiles.

So Derek's behaved, kept control even with the powerful scent coming from beside him in a confined car space, because it's still nice, routine at this point. He greets Stiles with a coffee when he picks him up and gets returned with a shy and grateful smile. Stiles always puts the radio onto a rap station after getting picked up, nodding his head to the beat and mouthing some of the words, and always ends the night after getting dropped off by poking his head through the car door and grinning, “Thank you, Derek.“

It's safe to say that his heart has been doing some incredible backflips, particularly since two nights ago, the human had given him a half-hug in less than five seconds. He was already pulling away before Derek could even realize his lips had been inches away from Stiles’ neck and left with a wave of his scent as he mumbled the usual thank you and rushed out of the door.

Now it was about ten in the morning and he's once again parked on the street next to the apartment building, only the younger man's running a little later than usual and he's busy trying to not let it make his skin crawl and itch. Derek wonders if he hasn't been paying enough attention, if it's possible that old memories dredged up to be too painful and that Stiles is having an off-day again. But he does know he's been getting more sleep, putting on more weight, healthier than before. The guilt and fear always takes longer to heal though, Derek knows that too.

He hears the apartment door first and sees the man in question, who looks the opposite of what Derek's come to expect, just barely smirking and, Derek _definitely_ notices, wearing jeans and a blue graphic t-shirt and a grey hoodie. Not the work uniform that he's become so familiar with.

His eyebrows are raised when Stiles is finally seated, slamming the car door behind him. His eyes are shining with unknown mirth as he claps his hands together, “Ronnie just decided to switch my shifts with Wanda because her daughter has a play tomorrow which _means_ you, sir, are going to finally do your duty - god, I don't know why I thought I could say that and not think it's funny - and show me the culture of town, man, I wanna hear some blues, dance a little, maybe go to that museum everyone talks about.”

“Oh,” Derek breathes, slightly hurt underneath as he frowns in thought, “Well, I could give you a ride there,” he offers, shrugging his shoulders until Stiles barks a sudden laugh.

“Drive me? Oh my god, I meant take me out. Date, Derek, a _date_ is what I want,” Stiles says sincerely, a kind smile on his face mixed with excitement when he places his long and thin fingers on Derek's forearm.

He feels the heat flush to his face as he releases a very breathless, “ _Oh_. Oh, okay, yeah, yes,” he clears his throat in embarrassment, but is unable to stop the grin on his lips, especially since he can feel his mate staring. Derek starts up the car, looking to the road before merging on and then out of the corner of his view, he sees Stiles looking him over curiously, something about it reminds him of the two of them and Liam in a van riding to the church in Mexico. The first thought comes to his head comes without warning and he’s asking before he can help it, “That’s really what you want?”

“What makes you say that?” Stiles asks suddenly, twisting his body around to face Derek over the middle console. “Derek, I already forgive you, okay? We’re not talking like you broke my heart or anything, you were scared, I get that. Besides, I missed you,” he admits with a wistful sigh, “But I’m glad you got out of there when you did. So if you’re thinking that you don’t deserve this or something self-destructing like that, you gotta let go of it, cause I meant what I said in that diner, and if it goes both ways, I think we both deserve it...right? Have you ever considered why the hell you’re mated to _me_?” Stiles finishes rambling with a deep inhale and Derek can hear his heart getting ticked off just to defend Derek from himself, christ. Stiles and his damn words in the air are hitting all the self blame and thoughts that he’s told himself for _years_ , the same reasons he ran away in the first place.

“I know why,” Derek says instead, glancing at the red light, “Trust me, you’re beautiful inside and out, so I know why. It’s definitely been considered,” he blurts, letting it tumble out of his mouth in a rush, hoping Stiles will only catch half of it so he doesn’t have to explain the blush high on his cheekbones.

He chances a look beside him and sees Stiles and his soft and knowing smile and quickly looks back to driving. It looks like Stiles heard every word perfectly.

“You think I’m beautiful?” he asks anyways, like he seriously doesn’t know what he does to Derek. Like he hasn’t thought about Stiles smirking at him all those thousands of times in the past, or his hands on Derek’s shoulders, his arms, saving him, trusting him before they could both ever admit it. Even now, Stiles’ shy smiles in the morning always leave him with a settled contentment he’s never felt before, his collarbones still jut out under his shirts and his comments are still quickly biting and witty, a sarcasm he considers nearly similar to his own.

Does he really have to say it?

“Yes,” Derek answers certainly, releasing an exhale that he can feel to his bones, the admission as easy as anything he’s ever done. It’s the wolf and the human, finally balanced with the anchor by his side, that has made him feel better in the slightest ways and he’s told himself before that he couldn’t do something like this again and put his heart out, but it’s different because it’s solid and tethered, and Derek absolutely doesn’t want to let go, even after all the feeble attempts of escape. “And you’re right, we do deserve it, at this point,” he states firmly, because it’s finally true.

“Thank you,” Stiles says and then waves his hand around quickly in dismissal, “Well, not just for that. For giving me time. For getting it, I guess, like you always do. Like I knew you would.”

Derek can’t think of anything to say in return to that, so the silence settles itself in the car. Stiles reaches for the radio and takes the werewolf’s hand in his at the same time, smooth and domestic. Derek breathes out a loaded sigh at the touch. Stiles fingers are long and gentle and he flushes a little uncontrollably at the thought of _fingers_. He thinks he wants it to always be like this, satisfied in each other’s space, their scents mixing to make something like comfort and home.

He feels the warm palm in his hand and holds on tighter, barely concealing his smile at his happiness.

 

(x)

“This is incredible,” Stiles nodding his head in high esteem as he tries to capture a glimpse of everything in one go. Derek doesn’t disagree - even two years after he’s moved to the city, Frenchman Street was still one of his favorite places to go in New Orleans. The buildings are all short and made of aged stone but brightly colored and painted with murals, there’s a famous yellow door on the corner that everyone flocks to, and the flea markets are always buzzing with joy and live music. It is pretty incredible, but somehow even better now.

“It’s pretty nice at night too,” he supplies with a small smirk, catching eyes with Stiles and finds himself continuing, “Lots of lights and stuff.”

“So what’s your favorite spot on this street?” Stiles asks in return, looking at the ground for a moment as they continue walking. He can tell Stiles is trying to make this easy on the both of them, disregarding the past and discussing interests, and honestly, the thought of that makes him want to kiss the other man in tenfold, so he smiles and stops in his tracks before answering.

“Come on, I’ll take you there,” he licks his lips naturally and smiles, circling his hand carefully around Stiles’ wrist, which was by the pocket of his jacket. Stiles is blinking at him and doesn’t move, so Derek just waits and _looks_ and sees the golden brown eyes roaming over his face, before they widen and he’s blushing.

He hears Stiles’ heart skip a beat. Then he’s moving without overthinking it too much, lets his fingers tangle with Stiles’, and grins to himself when the other lets out a breathy, fast laugh.

“Oh man, you’re too much, Derek Hale,” Stiles says in the most _fond_ fucking way possible and Derek rolls his eyes, trying to not look at Stiles’ smile because he’s afraid he’ll kiss it right off. So he just tugs softly and they’re walking side by side again.

“Looking at me like that,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, but looks at Derek after, raising his eyebrows pointedly with a smirk because he knows the werewolf heard him. His mouth drops in one part shock and one part cluelessness, but it’s Stiles rolling his eyes this time.

“Oh, _please_ , if you think I didn’t want to jump you over the middle of the car whenever you picked me up, you’re wrong, buddy, like loads of wrong. I just wasn’t ready then. I know what that look is and I just wanna say, I hope you’re gonna make good on the promise, cause I definitely am not opposed to some long-overdue feelings-slash-reunion sex after our little date night,” Stiles says in a rush, and Derek immediately feels his blood rush south of his body, nearly misses a step at the images in his head, and sends a curse in the air because _what_.

“Fuck, _Stiles_ ,” he begs, meant to sound reprimanding and defensive, but the next words just sound like a whine to his own ears, “You can’t just say shit like that.”

Stiles just laughs brightly at his response, squeezes his hand tighter and the mirth in his eyes find Derek’s obvious lust easily, “You’re eyes are saying plenty. Promises, promises.” He laughs again when Derek just grumbles a bit to himself and swears again. He was _not_ giving the younger man bedroom eyes, but if that’s how it’s going to play, he won’t pretend that he is opposed.  

He’s still reeling even when they reach his favorite restaurant and he opens the door for them, following in after Stiles, glancing at his ass when his back is turned and feels heated and embarrassed because he can’t stop thinking about it now that his mate has thrown the suggestion out there.

Christ, he’s going to lose his fucking mind, why are they even here at all? The hostess takes them to their booth and Stiles is speaking a mindful gratitude as they slide into their seats and settle. Derek’s palms feel sweaty and he’s swallowing nervously, watching the smooth movements of the man across him and keeps meeting those amber eyes under the dim lights of the restaurant. He’s a bit taken away that something he’s thought about so long ago and on rare occasions of the full moon, when he’d still be ashamed of hoping for a happy ending, is finally happening.

“Would you relax? I’m pretty sure you could knock a drink over in my lap by accident and I’d still think it’s the best date I’ve ever had,” Stiles reassures with a teasing smile, his right hand fumbling around with the utensils on the table. Derek can’t help but huff out a laugh at that but also worries that Stiles may have just jinxed himself to get a drink spilled on him so he moves his hands thoughtlessly and hears him laugh too.

“Okay, I’m fine,” Derek says between chuckling and lets his eyes meet the other’s, glad to find the same amusement and happiness that he’s sure matches his own.

“Okay, _sure_ , big guy,” Stiles jokes quickly and then looks away thoughtfully, biting his lip which Derek finds his eyes drawn to and tries to put to the back of his mind so he can focus, on _what_ , he doesn’t know. Stiles finally exclaims, “Oh! Okay, got it, so seeing as we spend most of our years dealing with evil supernatural entities and on few occasions, on the brink of death – you must have had some kind of bucket list, I _certainly_ did, so is there anywhere you wanted to travel to that you haven’t had a chance to yet?”

Derek feels like he’s been thrown in a loop but he follows the verbal joy, raising his eyebrows through the rant and smiling at the pointed question pitched his way, and nods as he answers, “Yeah, Machu Picchu.”

“Really?” Stiles asks in return, seemingly amazed at his answer, a light going off behind his eyes. Derek continues nodding, feeling his hands regain sense and his heart calming down at how effortless being with Stiles felt innately.

“Laura went for her 24th and she came back and told me all about it, said that if I ever wanted to climb something for myself, it should be Machu Picchu. The pictures were pretty amazing and I definitely still want to make good on that,” he shares, smiling forlornly at the memory of Laura’s bright and excited smile as she talked all about it in their apartment in New York.

The soft and understanding smile on Stiles’ face takes him aback and he swallows because he knows they both probably don’t get a lot of chances to talk about their dead loved ones – at least he doesn’t.

“That’s amazing, Derek,” he says sincerely, “Yeah, I guess I kinda wanna do something like that too, you know? My mom said Tuscany was the place, but I’m also convinced she loved it mostly for the bread,” he laughs and then shrugs to himself, “At least that’s what my dad told me.”

The rest of the afternoon goes by like nothing. Derek loses track of time engaged in back-and-forth conversation that makes him feel a bit stunned by the simplicity of it, how much he didn’t know about Stiles and how much hasn’t really changed at all – the rambling, the snark, the allure that still draws him in. The only thing different now is that Stiles’ _everything_ is paired with looks towards Derek like he’s the only thing that matters and that’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

Stiles is talking when they’re getting ready leave, interrupting a sentence to send an amiable thanks to the waitress, and then continuing his words as he shrugs his hoodie on. Derek rolls his eyes, looking out the window to see that it’s become more grey out, the startings of rain coming to the city.

Derek worries he may have missed something important when he’s only surrounded by silence when they exit the doors and when he glances to his left, Stiles is just staring again and when he gets caught, he ducks his head down and smiles, and admits with a heavy breath, “I wish I knew what a mate felt like.”

The werewolf shakes his head softly in disagreement and as it starts to drizzle on the walk back to the car, he worries about the cold versus the human’s thin hoodie and is wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist purely out of instinct, flushing as he speaks clearly, “A mate binds the human and the wolf side for its best suited match. The only difference is the wolf is bound by instinct. If a human understands its interest through instinct and mind, they call it love, I heard.”

Stiles laughs against his side, blows out a quick whistle to the air, “Damn good point, if you ask me.”

Then, because Derek can’t resist poking some fun of things, he snorts, “Obviously there are some werewolf enhanced abilities.”

“Such as?” Stiles asks with a flirtatious smirk on his lips, knowing it would be about him.

“Scent. Heartbeat.” Derek thinks back to the weeks Stiles had been missing, when instinct kicked in and how those things had helped him, but not everything is a perk. “And if you were dying, I’d feel it and know,” he looks beside him and sees Stiles staring thoughtfully at the drizzling and humid rain, staying quiet so Derek doesn’t stop there, opens his mouth but is interrupted.

“Does it work the other way around?”

“I –” Derek hesitates, knowing it’s possible, but usually only when the bond is solidified, so doesn’t know for sure, “That depends on you, I think.” He reaches into his pocket and takes out his keys, his car chirping twice from the spot on the road.

“Well, the last time I saw you…” Stiles bites his lip and then lets it go, a resolution in his eyes and ignores continuing in favor of getting into the passenger seat. Derek has no choice but to follow in line and get ready to drive back to Stiles’ place but still feels unsettled.

“Last time what?” Derek blurts once they’ve started on the road, feeling the importance of the conversation they left behind still lingering in his head.

“Well, you were dying, weren’t you?”

It wasn’t exactly wrong. As he was evolving, he was also part of a rebirth into an awakened version of himself, but the process certainly involved his wounds and something like death. He only nods in answer to the question and Stiles picks up on it immediately, “For a moment there, I didn’t want to go. You made everyone leave and save Scott, but I felt _so_ much pain at once and had to stop and I didn’t want to for a second, you knew that, right? You could see that. I was so sure it was the last time I’d ever see you.”

“I don’t think I could have bared it if you stayed then,” Derek admits hesitantly, thinking about the past and those last few moments revealed his anchors, that were pointedly not towards Braeden, and the transition he underwent to become a full shifted wolf and the incredible power that came along with it. If Stiles had been there, there’s no certainty of what could have happened. His mind moves back to the present and it’s easy to hear the resolute pounding of his heart. He feels the desire to reassure wholeheartedly, so he moves his hand over the console, copying Stiles’ motions from earlier and reaching blindly for the man’s hand. “You felt me dying?”

“I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it? I always seem to understand you even when I don’t want to, Derek. I never wanted you to die but you also seemed to have a serious streak of bad luck and a backwards martyr code that had me freaking the fuck out each time trying to save you,” Stiles says plainly, letting go of whether he has abilities on the supernatural side remaining, and Derek’s skin bristles with goosebumps when he remembers how many times Stiles had pulled him out of unconsciousness, saved him from drowning, and if he thinks about impulse, his intent and attraction seems to have been there from the start. He thinks about his exes regrettably and the way it would have always led back to Stiles. He’d never known another human to threaten a dying werewolf while saving and helping them like Stiles had done after barely knowing one another. He ignores the possibility that maybe the bond was already formed a long time ago, explaining the ways they were drawn in every time.

“That goes both ways, you know, I hate to see you hurt,” Derek says urgently in return, and then has to focus on parking, glad that they’ve finally reached their destination. He doesn’t want to be driving when there’s a loss of control on his emotions so suddenly that he has to hold back shifting or his eyes flashing.

“I know that too,” Stiles says kindly as ever and then smiles as he shrugs gently, “We save each other, dude, it’s what we’ve always done.”

“Maybe for a while I didn’t want anyone to save me,” Derek answers to the absence after that last morning under Mexico’s sun. He remembers that night effortlessly, how long Stiles stared, how he looked back, how Derek had to convince him to go and save Scott even though everything in him didn’t want his mate to go either. It’s not exactly an easy thing to think about – for a while there, he thought it was the last time he’d ever see Stiles also. And then, because his mind is still replaying things, he blurts out, “And don’t call me dude.”

“And that’s _fine_ , you saved yourself from Beacon Hills and hopefully learned that everything isn’t your fault, _babe_ ,” Stiles says with a drawl, his voice lowering and Derek feels hot all over for all sorts of different reasons, the nickname unexpected and the seduction even more so.

They’ve been sitting in the car talking back and forth with the engine still running so Derek shakes his head to snap out of it and begins to make his way out. Stiles starts laughing once he slams the door shut and it bounces back off the walls of the parking garage. “Oh _man_ , you totally froze,” he grins good-naturedly.

“That’s bullshit,” Derek denies immediately, knowing the blush had to be long gone by now, right?

They’re walking to the elevator when Stiles stops and advises teasingly, “Not that I don’t think your eyes are beautiful, my _handsome hero_ , but you might want to shift back before we head into the general public.”

And doesn’t that just throw him for another loop of how the human manages to frustrate him in multiple ways with one sentence. He takes a deep inhale and means to count but instead is reined in by Stiles’ scent, like a candle that’s still burning now, chamomile tea and lemons, freshly printed newspapers and spilled coffee on his jeans. It’s brightened and most of all, he can pick out the serotonin levels that tell him how happy his mate is around him. His wolf humbles immediately, feels the calm through his veins. When his eyes open again, he’s collected and smiles gently at the boy who held him together again.

They step into the elevator and Stiles bites his lip – Derek knows cause he’s staring unabashedly – and leans forward to press for the fifth floor of the building. The silence only stretches on for a few milliseconds before Stiles’ eyes catch on his.

His lips part in wonder, eyes peeking at Derek’s mouth and smiles as he moves a step closer before mumbling, unfocused, “So I know you didn’t walk me to my door, we’re in a damn elevator, and it’s not first date etiquette but if you could kiss me now, I’d really –” Stiles inhales sharply, running out of breath for the rest of his sentence, and just looks at him, eyes widened and unveiled of their want.  

The human visibly swallows and Derek can’t help but clear out a heavy sigh, his stomach swooping as he moves hastily, his hand coming up to rest against Stiles’ neck and just goes for it. Absentmindedly, he feels the booming pulse under his palm just before his lips are reaching the other’s and then he’s not thinking at all. Things like the softness, the way his lips are quivering with an abundance of emotion and the gasp when Derek risks the touch of his own tongue on Stiles’ bottom lip are happily going to be burned in his memory forever.

Stiles is becoming bolder, pushing his body closer to him and closing one hand tightly around the fabric of his t-shirt. His lips part open and his tongue is sliding against his own strongly, more powerful than he ever expected, moving with a forcefulness so scorching that Derek accidentally whimpers without meaning to. Stiles backs away from the kiss but wraps his other arm around his waist at the same time, bringing them chest to chest, the heat intensified. Stiles’ full lips are glazed over with saliva when he looks in front of him and he has to glance up to meet Stiles’ eyes and holy shit, isn’t that a fucking concept he could easily get used to.    

His heart is surely thundering in his chest and the younger man can feel it, and Derek knows there’s also a pink on his cheeks he isn’t used to, but the only thing he thinks about is the way his mouth is still tingling and how tonight was just the beginning.

The elevator bell dings out and almost reluctantly they untangle their limbs from one another. Derek misses his warmth and his tongue already but walks alongside the man with a surely obvious smile. When they reach the door, Stiles shamelessly checks him out just before he gets out his keys. So he decides to wait until just before his mate is holding the key to the lock to bring both of his arms around his middle and squeeze just slightly.

“You -” Stiles splutters after missing the keyhole, both enraged and embarrassed. Derek feels his body shift briefly as he tries again and pushes the door open immediately. Stiles reciprocates by bringing one of his arms around Derek’s as well, enclosing them together and walks them inside, using the other hand to push the door closed. His other arm fully encloses around him, which leaves them standing in the dark of Stiles’ apartment, holding each other like time is standing still.

Suddenly Derek can’t hear anything but their breathing and their heartbeats, magnified in the quiet. He feels heady and drunk basking in Stiles’ scent and longing, reading so many different emotions at once in Stiles’ blackened pupils. He keeps their gazes fastened and lifts the heels of his feet, leaning in slowly this time, his lips barely brushing against Stiles’, eyes fluttering shut because it’s already too much.

He feels Stiles’ shoulders as they tremble, only just pushing into it, letting his bottom lip graze between Derek’s just as tenderly, just as full of the love they haven’t spoken about.

His heart feels full, not wanting to pull away but knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist anymore if they kept going, and he sighs before disclosing, “You called me your stupid hero before you passed out.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles nods along half-heartedly, unsurprised, inclining closer and giving the werewolf a chaste kiss. “Sure. Stupid, handsome,” another kiss that leaves Derek stunned again, “Unlucky, stubborn, noble, goddamn _stunning_ , love of my fucking life, but my hero? You’re that all the time without even trying,” he finishes with a touch of his lips on his jawline. The human’s heartbeat is loud but steady as ever, intensely proving itself true over and over again around him. He feels his mouth drop open in shock, watching the knowing smile on Stiles’ mouth.  

“Derek, you’ve saved me from so many nightmares and you don’t even know it,” Stiles reveals in a rush, pleading him with just one look to understand the extent of the statement. Derek does his best but can’t be a mind reader and lets out a swoosh of air when he exhales and gently whispers Stiles’ name into the air as a question.

“I’m just glad you came back,” he finishes off without trying to explain, obviously not wanting to delve into it deeper. Derek’s not worried about finding out just yet, as far as he’s concerned, there’s plenty of time for them to dig up their scars and the past.

“I am too, Stiles,” he murmurs, returning the previous sentiments and giving a quick, innocent peck. “And I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I don’t plan on leaving ever again...I mean, unless you ask me to.”

Stiles groans loudly, the whining sound a loud surprise to his ears, “Derek, all I really want is you naked on my bed at this point so we can make love and then spend the rest of our lives together and talk about it in the morning.”  

Derek laughs, nodding his head, “Sounds good to me.”

 


End file.
